


Too Close To The Edge

by lavishsqualor



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Recreational Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-21
Updated: 2012-06-21
Packaged: 2018-05-29 11:36:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6373183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lavishsqualor/pseuds/lavishsqualor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Dean gets jealous that Sam smokes pot with someone other than him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Too Close To The Edge

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Fanlay](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fanlay/gifts).



And I will strike down upon thee with great vengeance and furious anger those who attempt to poison and destroy my brothers.  
–Jules Winnfield, _Pulp Fiction_  


"Here, Sam. It's all yours."

Blue-gray smoke wafts across the space above the coffee table as Jeremy leans across to pass Sam the joint. When Sam takes it, pinching it tight between his thumb and forefinger--but not too tight, just how Dean taught him--he laughs. The smoke dissipates upon the intrusion. 

It doesn't really disappear at all, though. The living room is full of it, a thick haze distorting the knotted pattern of the woodgrain paneling and mottling the texture of the stucco-dappled ceiling. Sam laughs, again, because he's smoked up with Dean in this exact room, but they've never hot boxed it this bad. 

Gotta quit laughing, Sam thinks, have to quit wasting it. He raises the joint back to his lips to take another but fumbles it when the front door slams open. 

_Dean._

Dean's eyes are wild, emerald green turned dark. "Sam," Dean says, and his voice is low, dangerous. 

He's _pissed._

Sam smells something awful, like burning hair or plastic or gasoline, and he remembers the joint. It's singed the fibers of the carpet where it's landed, so he grabs it quick, tosses the roach into the empty-tuna-can-cum-ashtray and stomps out the evidence. 

"What the hell are you trying to do?" Dean asks. "Burn the fucking house down?"

"No, I-- I just--" Sam's stammering. He can't focus, can't get a handle on exactly why Dean's mad. 

Jeremy breaks in, snickering, "Just a little accident, Dean, right? Your kid brother is a lightweight."

Dean steps closer and says, "No fucking way can you say that about him," and Jeremy's mouth pulls tight like he's catching on.

Dean pulls his hands out of his pockets and holds them tight at his sides. Sam knows what that means. He can see that Dean's barely got himself under control, he's riding too close to the edge of restraint. 

Jeremy stands, and Sam's impressed it took this long. Usually when Dean gets that look people cower away, instantly. 

Jeremy's not cowering, though. He steps into Dean's space, fearless or just plain stupid, and that's exactly the wrong thing to do.

Sam sees Dean's hand tighten into a fist by his side and the action looks unconscious. "If you think you can just come in here, bringing this shit, and lay your hands on my--"

Jeremy cuts Dean off. "Look, I don't know what you--"

Dean's fist snaps up, fast and hard.

Jeremy stumbles back, clearly not ready, clearly not aware that Dean was a real threat, and his lip trembles as blood trickles down his chin. The pink glaze in his eyes is doing nothing to hide the fear. "What the hell," he mumbles, and then he's limping out of the house with his hand across his face.

Dean glares at Sam. 

"What the hell, Dean?" Sam shakes his head as Dean crosses the room and sits down next to him. The couch is old and has one of those hideaway beds in it, so it offers little support, and when it dips, Sam can't help but lean into the center. He goes with it.

Dean kicks up his feet, heavy-heeled shit-kicker boots slamming down hard on the table, and he says, "So roll another joint, Sammy."

"What?" Sam asks, blown away.

"Roll another joint, kiddo. Your friend left his pot."

"Cause you kicked him out!" Sam can't find it in himself to be that upset, but it's the principle of the thing.

"Yeah, well," Dean says, all matter-of-fact, and then he leans forward, taking matters into his own hands.

Sam watches Dean work. Fingers that are much too familiar with the sharpening of knives, with stripping sawed-offs and packing rounds of rock salt, with gently cleansing and stitching closed flesh wounds make quick work of breaking up pot, of filling the paper and rolling it smooth. 

Dean's hands, they're fucking phenomenal. 

Dean's tongue is pink and wet and it licks across the joint lightly, deftly to seal it before he holds it out across the lack of space between them to Sam's mouth. Sam licks his lips and opens, let's Dean set the joint on his lower lip, and purses down. 

Dean lights his ever-present Zippo and the tip of the joint goes up in flames before it catches. He hmmms in appreciation. 

Sam takes a second hit--puff puff pass--and hands it to Dean. He keeps it in his lungs as long as he can, feels the burn, then feels it cool and lets go, slow and sure. Dean thumps him on the knee, a job well done. 

They sit. No talking, just thinking; silence that they're both comfortable with. Dean seems to be over whatever it was that was bothering him so bad. Sam still doesn't get it, is confused as all hell, so he asks into the quiet, "What was that all about, Dean, before?"

He's met with Dean's I-don't-wanna-talk-about-it grunt. Not fucking fair. Sam didn't do anything wrong. Having a friend over? Smoking some pot? Since when does Dean give a shit about either of those things?

Dean's not getting off that easy. 

"No, Dean. You can't do that. You can't just storm in and flip out like that. At least give me some sort of explanation!"

"I could smell the pot outside, Sam," Dean says, like it explains everything. 

Sam raises his eyebrows into an expression Dean would probably call bitchface number thirteen or something. "Yeah? And?"

"And it pissed me off! You can't just--"

"I can't just _what_ , Dean? As if you and me haven't been smoking together for like, a year now. I'm not some little kid.”

"Well, yeah." Dean shrugs. "You and me."

Sam's rattled. This whole thing couldn't possibly be about _Jeremy_ , could it? He doesn't even know what to say. "So it's not that I was smoking... but that it wasn't with you?"

And now Dean's blushing, full out sweep of pink across his his neck and up into his ears, his freckles popping out like sprinkles on an ice cream sundae. Dean hates his complexion for this exact reason, because he can't hide a thing, Sam knows. Which is exactly why Sam loves it so much. He feels a swell of satisfaction at calling Dean out and a deep flush of pride, or love, or something, go straight through his chest and down into his gut. Dean was _jealous_. 

"Whatever, Sam," Dean says, but he punches Sam in the leg and passes back the joint. 

Sam sits back and takes a huge hit. He hadn't even noticed, but he'd gotten all tense, so he relaxes into the couch, letting his weight fall back into the center again, closer to Dean.

**Author's Note:**

> written for [Supernatural Spring Fling Fic & Art Exchange](http://www.spnspringfling.livejournal.com) 2012


End file.
